


Experience Pure Blitz

by Ki_ru



Category: Tom Clancy's Rainbow Six (Video Games)
Genre: Anal Sex, Drinking, Established Relationship, I apologise yet again, Kissing, M/M, Overstimulation, PWP, Pure Smut, Sex Toys, Teasing, Vibrators, remote controlled toy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-21
Updated: 2018-01-21
Packaged: 2019-03-07 20:39:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,796
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13442949
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ki_ru/pseuds/Ki_ru
Summary: Rook enjoys seeing Blitz squirmentirelytoo much, so he suggests going out for drinks with their colleagues after inserting... well, you know how it goes.





	Experience Pure Blitz

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Mi723](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mi723/gifts).



> \- happy mensiversary, you wonderful creature. May we suck more people into the vortex that is this ship.  
> Everyone, enjoy this shameless PWP!♥

“But trust me, that’s nothing compared to the time I was somewhere in the jungle, no toilet paper, no nothing, we weren’t as comfy and spoiled as most of the brats are nowadays, y’know? It’s all cotton candy and unicorns nowadays, innit?”

Blitz nods politely, prompting Thatcher to continue. The German is sitting on a tall barstool, eye level with his colleague and _this_ close to snapping, his posture rigid, his knuckles white where he’s pressing his fingers against the underside of the bar table at which they’re posted. Even to the untrained eye, he must look wild – eyes wide, slightly manic smile that’s obviously meant to be friendly, limbs tense.

“So there I was after a particularly vicious bowel movement, and spot some really juicy looking leaves, y’know? Thick and soft and whatnot, they look even better than the real thing, so I go: sure, I’ll use those.”

It’s not Thatcher’s unending stream of anecdotes that’s causing his restlessness and tension, though a lesser man might’ve taken flight long before he even got to the nastier injuries. Blitz must possess an extraordinarily inviting face or maybe Thatcher’s just fucking with him, knowing he’s too polite to excuse himself or change topics instead of letting an old man rant about ailments this detailed. The others seem wholly non-inclined to come to his rescue and especially Smoke and Mute intermittently watch him from the sidelines with interest, probably wondering when he’s going to break.

No, what’s causing Blitz’ distress instead is a small object whose purpose would be glaringly obvious to most people. It’s nestled in nice and tight, a constant pressure impossible to ignore, its effects disastrous. It’s not even _his_. He doesn’t know whether that makes it better or worse, only that it rubs against a certain spot that drives him slowly but surely insane, draining his attention and composure even more effectively than Thatcher’s horror stories. Now and again he forgets about it for a second, shifts on his chair or attempts to sit up like a normal human being and barely manages to suppress a flinch, the unfamiliar sensation sending a shock of what he vaguely identifies as pleasure through him.

At this point he’s not even sure anymore what it is, whether it’s a blessing or a curse, whether this was the best idea or the worst he’s ever agreed to. He’s leaning towards worst. On most nights, he’s able to sneakily elude Thatcher and Pulse and Montagne and all the other operators who mistake him for the therapist they don’t have yet undoubtedly _need_ , only with this… this _thing_ inside him, his peace of mind is irretrievably lost and so he finds himself here, on one edge of the L-shaped room, cornered by the old man and nowhere to go while he desperately hopes to maybe drop dead any second. He almost laughs. The poor doctor who’d have to examine his body.

From across the room, Rook catches his eye. It must have something to do with… _it_ , Blitz’ nerves are going haywire and he thinks he might be overstimulated, but merely _looking_ at his lover makes his knees weak. Rook’s beautiful brown curls are pushed out of his face (though Blitz wants nothing more than to bury his fingers in them, he knows how soft they are), the jeans he’s wearing sinfully tight and flattering his butt, the dark red hoodie their favourite. Blitz found it somewhere among Rook’s clothes, wore it for a few days and then caught Rook sniffing it later – this was at a time where their relationship was still in the fragile phase at the beginning. Blitz never told him but he adores the way Rook’s features light up when he receives any piece of clothing Blitz has had on his body at some point. They take turns wearing that hoodie. Blitz thinks it suits Rook more.

Bright blue eyes flash, amused, and Blitz agrees with himself mentally: yup, he’s definitely flustered and fidgety and _alright_ , he’ll admit the feeling is titillating though he suspects it’s as much the… thing as it is the knowledge that _Rook_ knows and that he keeps throwing smouldering gazes in Blitz’ direction with a fire behind it that he hasn’t seen in a while. Not that they don’t exchange heated glances all the time, only Rook seems to _really_ enjoy … whatever this is.

One of Rook’s eyebrows twitches and Blitz tries to discern the meaning behind it while Thatcher says something along the lines of ‘local poison ivy’ and then. Then just. There’s – it’s sudden and Blitz almost jolts, almost knocks off the pints on the table, almost whimpers. It… it just -

It _vibrates_.

His fingernails dig into the underside of the tabletop, he sucks in a _very_ long breath and his dick actually twitches in the confinement of his jeans, feeble and pleading. When Rook worked it into him with lube and patience and a merciless smirk on his face, Blitz was more than half hard, the familiar sensation of being filled more than enough to get him going, Rook’s hands skilled and practised and warm. Since then, it’s been coming and going, resting in between bouts of sudden arousal, elicited by deliberate touches from Rook or seemingly innocent comments. Now he could feel his blood rushing south again, the thing pressing against his prostate while vibrating _almost_ intangibly yet not quite, Blitz painfully aware of the oscillations. This is – he can’t do this. What if someone hears or someone notices his expressions and _figures it out_ and oh God he would die of mortification, just die right there on the spot.

He tries several things while Thatcher goes into detail about the blistering rash (and isn’t it a blessing Blitz is actually too preoccupied to listen), he gingerly lifts his hips off the seat, scoots back and forth, tries clenching and unclenching around it with the only result being that he’s getting impossibly turned on. Because now it feels as if it’s _massaging_ his most sensitive spot, reminiscent of Rook’s patient fingers that never fail to wrench a shuddering and devastating orgasm out of him when the Frenchman feels like draining Blitz’ balls and his soul equally and isn’t _that_ a thought that’s detrimental to his resolve of not letting anything show on his face.

A few hysterical seconds, Blitz toys with the idea of just following through with it. He’s pretty sure he can come like this, the pressure is sweet and tantalising – if he gyrated his hips a little, tenses around it, he might be able to do it. The prospect is tempting, he would be free of this _pull_ , of this perpetual underlying pleasure.

Still. He’s in a pub full of people, in the company of his fellow operators and he’s never had a climax like that without moaning loudly and, once, even sobbing (Rook was especially proud of that one). It’s completely out of the question. Besides, he’ll end up severely overstimulated and even redder than before and it might not be pleasant anymore afterwards but _extremely_ uncomfortable. So he has to endure.

The smile Rook sends him is angelic and entirely at odds with his sadistic nature.

Blitz downs his beer, mutters an ‘excuse me’ and hops down from the stool. Instant regret washes over him while he tries to figure out how he’s supposed to _walk_ with that thing moving inside. He grinds his teeth and decides to just suck it up and be a man. A man who’s about to beg his boyfriend for his permission to take out the -

“One vodka and one Jägermeister, please.” Up close, Rook’s smile is even more dazzling and for some reason not at all directed at Blitz but rather the burly-looking barkeep who, fortunately, seems immune to his charm. _How_ , Blitz doesn’t know. He sidles up to his lover and leans towards him to ask whether he’s suffered enough, whether they can leave or do _anything_ that alleviates the lust pooling in his lower body, really. Instead, Rook hands him a shot glass filled with bad ideas in dark liquid form and clinks it together with his vodka. “Santé, mon cœur!”

If he wants, Rook can play him like a fiddle. He’s young, charming, extremely handsome and not above using his assets to get what he wants – which has turned out to be Blitz. He’s come over him like a natural catastrophe from which Blitz never really recovered, demanding, confident and enthralling, he managed to charm the pants off Blitz effortlessly and now that he’s in them, he’s experimenting with what kind of reactions he can get out of his German colleague – they’re manifold and, if you happen to be Rook, probably very satisfying. He knows almost all of Blitz’ quirks by now and has weaponised them to the point where even Bandit would be impressed.

One of Blitz’ weaknesses he’s currently exploiting is his religious adoration of a drink not only named similarly to one of his friends, not only from his home country and not only containing enough alcohol to give him a nice buzz after a manageable amount, no, it’s also the drink of his youth and reminds him of home. He’s incapable of refusing it. Rook’s aware of this.

With an inward sigh, he accepts the proffered glass and downs it in one swallow, the spicy flavour ticklish on his tongue and the alcohol warming the back of his throat. He shouldn’t drink too much tonight, he ends up either restless and fidgety, which means he can’t keep Rook’s hands off him, or exceedingly tired and he’s fairly certain he’s _not_ going to get sleepy like this. “Rook”, he pleads quietly, “can we just -”

And with an expression more befitting a supermodel trying to win over an audience, the Frenchman addresses the unimpressed barkeep yet again: “A Baby Guinness and another Jägermeister, please.”

“You’re going to kill me”, Blitz tells him and gulps down the second shot, placing the glass next to the other ones on the counter absent-mindedly, ignoring his slightly shaking fingers. What little alcohol has gotten absorbed into his bloodstream already aggravates his symptoms, leaves him unfocused and jittery. “Can you at least -” He lowers his voice to a whisper. “Can you turn it _off_?”

Rook regards him with the full force of his piercing eyes and it’s like brushing an electric fence. Even after everything they’ve done (an extensive list that includes a whole lot of _first_ s for Blitz), he’s still not used to Rook’s presence, still marvels at him in secret. “I love you _so much_ ”, Rook replies quietly with a fond smile, reaches into his pocket and Blitz gasps and grabs the counter and wobbles for a second because now it’s _stronger_ and _oh my God_. And as if nothing has happened, Rook’s attention is lavished on the bartender once more. “Could we get a tequila and one last Jägermeister?”

Blitz is wholly occupied with just _breathing_ and holding on for dear life to really register the words and so when Rock holds out an unscrewed salt shaker to him with an expectant smirk, he stares at it for a few seconds. “Are you serious? The others are -”

“The others have seen the love bites all over your pretty body, I don’t think this will particularly shock them. Besides”, Rook indicates the inseparable SAS pair who are currently giving a group of rowdy regulars the stink eye, “the boys are going to provoke a fight in a minute and then we’ll be thrown out anyway. So might as well.”

It’s hard to concentrate while he feels the vibrations so _deep_ they’re actually carrying over to the head of his lamenting dick that’s trapped between his body and the waistband of his underwear. “Why don’t you just do it on your hand?” He notices the way Rook’s eyes flicker down every time he shifts his weight or twitches and his attention, the knowledge he’s affecting Rook as well is intoxicating. Though maybe that’s the Jägermeister. Or both, actually.

“Because it’s hot as hell”, Rook answers him casually and obviously grows weary of looking at Blitz’ cheeks turning increasingly darker since he adds: “Alright, I’ll turn it off if you let me do it. Deal?” He steps further into Blitz’ personal space when he nods feebly, making their knees brush and breaths mingle and none of it is accidental, Blitz is sure of that. Rook even _smells_ good, of coffee and himself and Blitz can’t bring himself to refuse. Most of their interactions end with him giving in though he admittedly rarely regrets it later. He does regret agreeing to the… thing, however.

Like an obedient dog, he opens his mouth and sticks out his tongue so Rook can pile a bit of salt on it. With another fiery glance, the Frenchman leans forward and licks the salt off in a broad sideways swipe, the action not quite a kiss and yet undeniably erotic. Both of them gulp down their shots immediately, Rook exuding an aura of pure smugness and Blitz trying to ignore both the disgusting taste of mixing herbal liqueur with the residual salt as well as the lurking suspicion that _someone_ saw and he’ll never heard the end of it. On the other hand, that means he’s now acutely aware of the fact that having your ravishing boyfriend _lick things off your tongue_ is, as Rook eloquently put it, hot as hell.

He chews on his lower lip and tugs at Rook’s sleeve while the younger man is busy eating the entire slice of lemon, the absolute monster – at the same time, a commotion breaks out behind them, loud voices and chairs screeching over the hardwood floor. Neither of them pay it any heed. “Rook, please”, he asks quietly, barely audible over the ruckus. It requires a lot of discipline right now not to just start dry-humping Rook’s leg; he feels the thrumming in his soles by now, relentless and causing a pulsing sensation that makes him dizzy. Again, could be the Jägermeister, too.

Behind them, there’s a loud crash to which they don’t react. Rook reaches into his pocket once more and the vibrations stop, finally _stop_ , allow Blitz to slump and sigh and assess the damage. Thatcher might refuse to speak to him for a while, people might’ve seen just how _much_ Rook has him wrapped around his little finger and he probably looks feverish. It could be worse. “You’re doing so well”, Rook tells him softly while a window shatters and someone grunts, “even better than I’d hoped.”

“Can we go home soon?” He rests his forehead on Rook’s shoulder, the simple touch alleviating the _need_ coursing through his veins a little. The voices have picked up again, are engaging in a shouting match. Blitz thinks he recognises the bartender’s rumble and feels slightly bad for him.

“Mon cœur, this is only the second pub. Don’t you want to enjoy Thatcher’s company a little longer?”

“No, I want to go home and take this… thing out and have sex.” Admitting to it is harder than he’d thought, in a way he’s acknowledging his defeat – Rook is usually the one to initiate anything and though Blitz is eager and willing, he often hopes his boyfriend reads his moods as aptly as he reads Blitz in general. A chair splinters and someone screams.

“I’m sorry, what was that?”

Suspicious, he searches for any indication that Rook is toying with him though he genuinely seems to have trouble hearing him due to the disturbance, so he repeats, a little louder: “I want to go back and screw.”

Rook is scrunching up his face. “Huh?”

“I want you to _fuck me_!”, yells Blitz, fed up, and all of a sudden it’s _entirely_ too quiet – it got silent right before those last words and a quick glance assures him that _yes_ , most people that weren’t involved in the bar fight and even some that _were_ are staring at him and he just. He watches Rook’s expression soften and dissolve into a half fond, half amused smile and feels his cheeks burn. “I’m leaving”, he murmurs and turns, strides out of the pub in a brisk pace only interrupted by stepping over a grinning Smoke who even attempts to trip him. The refreshing outside air hits him the same time the liqueur does, so it fortunately softens the blow, though he’s still a tad unsteady.

Footsteps hurry after him and before he knows it, he’s being crowded against the nearest wall, arms full of a chuckling Frenchman who now smells of citrus and mouths a ticklish line of kisses down the side of his neck when he hides his face, mortified. “Mon cœur, don’t be embarrassed”, a boyish voice whispers against his skin, “here, feel.” He guides one of Blitz’ hands to his crotch and Blitz’ fingers brush against an unmistakable bulge, proof of Rook’s attraction to him, large and hard and for a second he wishes it could replace the… thing inside him _right this instant_ , a surge of pleasure rushing through him and stealing his breath. It doesn’t help that Rook uses his momentary distraction to shove his tongue down his throat.

They have an agreement. Ever since Rook basically yelled in his face how much he’d like to stay by his side and never leave (which left Blitz stunned, disbelieving and ridiculously excited), they’ve been negotiating the boundaries and terms of their relationship, all of which Rook continues to push until Blitz gives in, as usual (though as mentioned, rarely ends up regretting). One of Blitz’ conditions was a hard limit on public displays of affection, he’s uncomfortable with the two of them being the centre of attention, with the web they’ve privately weaved being exposed to prying eyes, judging minds, colleagues who need to respect him in order to ensure smooth teamwork. He prefers not to drag what they have out into the open.

Tonight, it’s different. He could shift the blame onto quite a few things, attribute it to the alcohol, a rough week, Rook’s irresistibility, his nearly perpetual arousal, but ultimately he knows what it is: it’s the feeling of _being wanted_. That is what turns this whole ordeal from humiliating into thrilling – the fact that it drives Rook wild enough to openly violate Blitz’ wishes for no other reason than not being able to help himself. Gorgeous, trusting, confident Rook _desires_ him so much he moans unselfconsciously into Blitz’ mouth when he returns the kiss with equal passion and wraps his arms around Rook’s waist instead of pushing him away. It’s alright if the others see them, it’s not like they don’t know how hopelessly infatuated Blitz is anyway.

Their tongues wrestle in a way that leaves him panting and when Rook pulls them closer together, Blitz is unable to suppress the urge to _grind_ against the stupidly sexy Frenchman and the toy deep inside rubs and prods and Blitz kind of misses the vibrations now. Rook is claiming his mouth, kissing and sucking and licking as if he wants to drag an orgasm out just with his _teeth_ and Blitz has to admit he’s on the best way there, only then someone wolf-whistles and ruins the atmosphere. They break apart, Rook glowing and elated, Blitz bashful. “The next pub”, Rook reassures him, “then we’ll go. Okay?”

He nods and represses the shame trying to claw its way into his thoughts – the moment he got lost in is gone and now he’s left with nothing more than a furious blush and a throbbing erection. Rook senses his apprehension and takes his hand, links their fingers together, pulls him along. When they catch up to the rest of their group, Thatcher is chatting away to a horrified looking Jäger, IQ regards Blitz with a sly smirk and Smoke and Mute are picking glass out of each other’s hair. “You two look like apes”, Rook informs them good-naturedly and they grin back.

“Have you ever wondered why glass tastes like blood?”, Smoke shoots back and Mute snorts.

“What was that about?” The Frenchman nods back to the pub out of which they’ve just undoubtedly got thrown.

“Lads been pesterin’ this bloke all evening. Cause a ruckus, clobber his mates, let him sock me and then casually drop we’re SAS. Bloke’s got a date with the bird he’s been ogling and the respect of his mates now. Mission fuckin’ accomplished.”

“I understood some of those words”, IQ interjects. She’s still giving Blitz the side-eye.

“He’s a git, it’s so fucking stupid, innit?”, Mute butts in, shaking his head. “Lad thinks he’s shit-hot now, fights a chav and gets his botty spanked ’cos in his mind, he’s bleedin’ Superman.”

“Could’ve whined about it before, you tosser, not like I held a gun to your head, innit? You just like watchin’ blokes givin’ me shiners, admit it.”

And Blitz is content in just trotting next to the loudly arguing Englishmen, relieved the focus has shifted to them, Rook’s warm hand calming him. He thinks he might be able to enjoy the rest of the evening if he manages to distract himself, maybe rescue Jäger from Thatcher’s claws.

Then the vibrations start again.

 

Over the course of the next hour, Blitz drops two glasses, calls someone by the wrong name, loses his train of thought more than he’d like to admit and _almost_ moans in IQ’s face. The last event could’ve potentially ended disastrously since IQ thinks him a prude and would probably have choked to death on her rum and coke if she _knew_ or even suspected what’s going on. He’s not allowed to rest anymore, Rook has cranked up not only his remote control or whatever devilish device he’s utilising tonight to torture his lover, but also the flirting, innuendos, those nonchalant poses he strikes because he knows Blitz can’t tear his eyes away. He’s _relentless_.

At some point, they are stranded in the men’s, Blitz desperately attempting to pee with Rook present who _claims_ he wants to make sure Blitz doesn’t take _it_ out, however, his statement ‘I love watching you try to piss with a boner’ determines that to be a lie. A random guy who’s entered the room during the middle of that declaration wordlessly turns around on his heel and walks out again. In the end, Blitz manages after a long struggle and incessant teasing and the relieved whimper that escapes him while he empties his bladder makes Rook’s eyes darken and him feel vaguely dirty even if he’s done _nothing_ wrong.

He gets impatient. He’s tiring quickly of feeling on edge, his skin itching and his scalp prickling; he wasn’t even aware he could be aroused for this long, seconds ticking by like minutes, minutes sluggishly passing like small eternities. He looks at his boyfriend and his imagination runs wild, he pictures pulling on this glorious wavy mane while Rook sucks him off, envisions riding him while their tongues intertwine, but ultimately, he wants Rook to hold him down and fuck him until he sees stars. The strength of his desire worries him slightly, he’s normally nothing but composed and rational, rarely motivated by primitive -

Okay, well, that’s an outright lie. In Rook’s company, he’s like a fainting goat – as soon as Rook does anything unexpected or new, Blitz goes stiff.

Therefore, he finds himself by Rook’s side, the… thing whirring inside and him listlessly pawing at the other man without even realising he’s doing it until Rook catches one of his hands and holds it in place with an absent-minded smile. Blitz is sweating and despairing slowly and he can’t even jerk off anywhere because Rook follows him like a hound and to be honest it’s a God damn _miracle_ Blitz hasn’t creamed himself yet. He’s had the good sense to extract Thatcher from where he was attempting to fuse together with a more and more panicked Jäger, rescuing his friend and himself simultaneously since Thatcher’s now switched from his own injuries and diseases to those of _other_ people, leaving him the freedom to additionally invent fatal illnesses and distracting Blitz for the time being from the insistent pulsing coming from his crotch.

And then, finally, _at last_ , Rook utters the words Blitz has been wanting to hear all evening: “How about we leave, hm?” He doesn’t have the energy to answer, only nods and inhales deeply and relaxes a little. “We’re going to catch a cab with IQ. Come on.”

Of _course_ he’s not done torturing Blitz.

IQ rides shotgun, the two lovers are in the back seat with Rook taking up entirely too much space in the very middle of the bench, pressing his long legs against Blitz’, stroking his inner thigh out of view and driving him wild. The moment the three (Rook instantly befriended the cabbie, as he’s wont to do) include Blitz in their conversation, the hand moves up lightning quick, presses its heel against the head of Blitz’ almost _painful_ erection and _grinds_ so instead of replying reasonably, Blitz produces an unmanly squeak that prompts IQ to remark: “Wow, you _really_ had too much. Rook, are you sure you really want to keep this dork around? You could do so much better, sweetie.”

And Rook, because _that’s the kind of person he is_ , smiles brightly at Blitz, starts massaging his cock through his jeans and answers: “Probably, but this way I can be sure he stays with me.” Still, he leans over and whispers _je t’aime quand même_ into Blitz’ ear for two reasons: to reassure him so Blitz doesn’t even _start_ doubting himself and also because he knows Blitz loves it when he speaks French. It achieves both intended effects.

He spends the rest of the drive surreptitiously rolling his hips into Rook’s offered palm, growing more and more desperate, until they’re somehow at their destination, wave IQ goodbye and then look at each other. “I’m so proud of you”, Rook tells him and Blitz sighs in frustration.

“Can we just … get to it?”

The smile slips a little into a self-satisfied smirk. “Get to what, mon cœur?”

_He can’t be serious_. “Do you want me to yell it again for everybody to hear?”

“You could repeat it all day and I’d never get tired of it.”

Blitz has to actually herd his lover up the stairs to Rook’s apartment, pushing and manoeuvring while the Frenchman giggles, genuinely attempts to initiate small talk and whispers dirty things in his mother tongue, which leads to Blitz dry-humping his arse in a feverish effort to alleviate the _need_ blotting out all coherent thought whereas Rook, the security freak, opens his million locks and even takes his time doing so. They stumble into the flat and over each other and Rook has the _audacity_ to ask: “Where, bed? Couch? Floor?”

“I couldn’t care _less_ ”, Blitz mumbles and is already busy ridding himself of his clothes, throwing his sweater on the floor, unbuttoning his shirt. His blood is pumping, his temples pulsing and he wants this _now_.

“Okay, you get undressed and bend over something, I’ll get the lube.” At least now Rook sounds a little breathless as well, pauses in the doorway to bite his lip watching Blitz reveal his muscled chest and has to tear himself away from the view.

With a few more impatient movements, Blitz discards the rest of his clothing and wraps one hand around his freed cock that is weeping and dark red and _begging_ for proper stimulation. In the silence of their abode, the vibrating is audible which somehow amplifies the jolts of pleasure his own hand is causing, his brain effortlessly providing images of Rook, focused and with damp hair, jerking off as well, a charming, boyish grin on his face, and it’s _exhilarating_ , he’s finally allowed to do whatever he wants, his mind muddled, his thoughts subdued, his senses dulled. He’s _so close_ now, he can taste his orgasm on the tip of his tongue, feels his balls draw up – and then someone drags his hand away. Just… interrupts him.

He gasps, is met with aqua blue eyes staring into his and a voice telling him: “Come on, walk with me. You’re not done yet, mon cœur, not quite. Here, prop yourself up.” Warm hands guide him further into the flat, bend him over the kitchen table so that he rests his arms on the surface and his head on his arms and then there’s movement inside him. The toy is carefully being pulled out. It leaves a mould behind, perfectly adapted to its shape and Blitz feels the loss keenly, whines at the sensation of suddenly being empty, whines at _still_ not being allowed to come. His dick is _dripping_ at this point, soaked his discarded underwear just with precum, now twitching so violently in anticipation that the wet tip touches Blitz’ flat stomach.

“If it’s too much, let me know”, Rook tells him and then there’s a blunt, slick head rubbing against Blitz’ hole and he hasn’t had any _preparation_ , Rook knows how fucking big he is, does he want to split him apart? But as Blitz twists and turns around to express his outrage over his shoulder, he notices two things: first, his ring of muscle gives way almost instantly, welcomes Rook’s cock like a permanent resident, allows it inside without any pain though there is considerable discomfort due to all the previous abuse, and second… Rook looks fucking _wrecked_. The gaze he fixes on Blitz is hopeless, wanton, disarmed, as overwhelmed as Blitz is. The amount of effort it must’ve taken him not to give in earlier, to keep pushing Blitz, to wait until _this moment_ is probably impressive. “You feel”, the Frenchman starts and his voice breaks and his hips are steadily moving closer to Blitz’, “you feel _so good_. How I’ve waited for this, mon cœur, you’re so beautiful.” He bottoms out and Blitz is _breathless_.

He’s so full, he feels it in his _chest_ , can’t suppress another whine that earns him a tiny, helpless smile from his lover. Rook’s length is hot and hard inside him, it’s heavenly and uncomfortable simultaneously. After a quick nod, Rook starts moving with a relieved exhale, does a series of small thrusts that leave Blitz clawing at the wood under his fingernails – it’s good and too much at the same time, he instinctively wants to shy away from it but forces himself not to, meets the thrusts and groans when the thick head strokes over his prostate.

He knows Rook can keep this up for a while, has been at the mercy of more than half an hour of solid fucking before, drenched and begging for release. He wonders why he thought he could do this standing up. Hands on his hips hold him in place so Rook can deepen his grinding motions before he gets serious, switching to short, hard thrusts and accompanies them with a few desperate moans. Blitz is biting one of his hands now in an attempt to distract from the overstimulation, the slide that is just on _this_ side of pleasure, his knees already threatening to buckle.

Blitz is hanging in limbo, he would’ve been able to come quite a while ago already, so he just stands there, bent over the surface and _endures_ the abuse, asks himself vaguely whether he’ll ever be able to feel differently than now, overcome with lust and soreness and devotion. He’s so stupidly in love with Rook that he let him do all this and probably would do it again if he asked because that look, that _one_ look his boyfriend gave him, longing and worship and helplessness, made it all worth it. He knows Rook is approaching his climax fast, his hips stutter and his noises are unrestrained, his movements frantic.

When Rook’s fingers dig painfully into his thighs and his thrusts are impossibly deep, Blitz reaches down and takes hold of his own cock once again, bouncing in time with Rook’s motions. The first stroke is a fucking _revelation_ , it feels sharp and _real_ and finally, like _enough_. He jerks himself in time with Rook’s now irregular slams of his hips, moans uselessly and knows he’s going to get there any second now, he can’t coordinate like he sometimes does, making sure they come at the same time because Rook _loves_ when he does it but it turns out to not matter whatsoever since they climax simultaneously anyway.

Rook pushes in to the hilt and lets out a strangled gasp that Blitz’ body apparently interprets as some kind of signal because suddenly, all the pleasure and faint hurt tip him over and transform into one maelstrom of ecstasy, pulling him under and sucking the air out of his lungs. He groans blissfully, spills into his hand, his orgasm overpowering him after all this build-up, relief and satisfaction flooding him. His back arches, he clenches around the flesh and rolls his hips against Rook’s, slow and sensual, milking him while he ejaculates inside him, shuddering violently, his dick throbbing. They’re completely lost in sensation, Blitz’ eyes are closed and he just _feels_ while spurting the last of his cum onto the floor, his body being encompassed by pure bliss, even if his poor hole is tender and his penis utterly spent.

For a few seconds, they remain still, enjoying each other and the trembling caused by aftershocks.

He flinches a bit when Rook pulls out and echoes the Frenchman’s quiet laugh as his legs _do_ buckle and he needs to be steadied to even stand up. Without a look back at the blasted toy that caused so much trouble and that Rook carelessly discarded somewhere on the floor earlier, the two stumble into the bedroom and collapse on the bed. A few minutes are spent on merely catching their breath, then he kisses Rook in order to avoid meeting his gaze directly, making it slow and sweet, is pulled into powerful arms afterwards and nearly smothered on Rook’s broad chest in a gesture that can generously be called cuddling.

“How about we never do this again?”, he murmurs against Rook’s collarbone and can’t resist pressing his lips against it, sucking slightly. Rook is right, the rest of Rainbow _has_ seen Rook’s marks all over his body. Maybe he should reciprocate.

“Are you kidding? This was _phenomenal_ ”, Rook immediately objects with a shaky laugh. “Memories of this evening will keep me warm on rainy days, mon cœur.”

Blitz sighs resignedly. He knew it. “You’re going to be the death of me.”

“Ah, at least you’ll die doing what you love, hm?” And with a good-natured chuckle, Rook determines Blitz’ fate.


End file.
